Adam snickered. “I can’t believe you won the coveted Little Miss Buttermilk title.”
Melanie leaned forward and swatted him on the knee. She’d never told any man this stupid, stupid story, not even her ex. “If you must know, I think I largely took it based on the talent portion. I was an excellent tap dancer.”
“I have no doubts about that. I’ve seen your legs, Buttermilk.”
Melanie swallowed, hard, and tucked one leg under the other. Had he ever seen her legs—every last inch of them. Adam cleared his throat. Thankfully, Jack got up from his nap and ambled over, providing a logical means of changing the topic.
“Hey, buddy.” Adam scratched Jack behind the ears.
“Your parents must’ve made you do things you didn’t want to do when you were a kid.”
“It’s always been about business. Some kids got baseball mitts for Christmas from their dad. I got a briefcase.” Adam nodded, looking at Jack. “That actually happened, by the way. No lie. I love my dad, though. I really do.” That sadness was in his voice again, the one that cropped up whenever he spoke of his father.
“That’s why you agreed to let me come. To make your dad happy.”
His eyes connected with hers, holding steady for a few, insanely intense moments. “That’s a big part of the reason. Of course.”
Five
Adam’s brain was mush. There was no more gas in the tank. He and Melanie had talked about interviews and wardrobe for hours. They’d delved into the details of his past that they needed to focus on, and the ones they absolutely needed to avoid. She’d lectured him about refraining from flipping the bird to the photographers when they got pushy. He’d done it only once, but he still wasn’t sure he could make any promises on that last point.
He rolled his neck, admiring Melanie as she eyed her watch for what had to be the third or fourth time. She was especially lovely in the fading light of day, with a golden pink flush to her cheeks that closely matched the lips he’d never be able to forget. “Do you have somewhere you need to be, Buttermilk?”
“Hey. Are you really going to call me that? Because I kind of hate it.”
“Really? Because I kind of love it.” It wasn’t the nickname that he loved. It was her reaction, the way she got a little riled up but still seemed to enjoy some part of it.
“If you’re going to call me that, then at least turn on the TV so we can watch some basketball. My team is playing.” She smiled as if she couldn’t keep it inside any longer. “Actually, it’s our league championship. This is the first year in a really long time that we’ve been any good.”
“Yeah. Of course.” He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. “But wait. The NBA championship isn’t until June.”
“I’m talking college.” She shook her head and cast him a glance over her shoulder, a glance that stopped him dead in his tracks. Those blue eyes of hers were magic. Flat-out magic. “March Madness, baby.”
He couldn’t have fought a smile if he’d wanted to. He loved hearing her say “baby,” especially coupled with a sports reference. It was the sexiest damned thing ever. “Your wish is my command.” He scanned through the channels until he found her game. “I’m more of an NBA guy than college, but I’m up for anything.”
She scooted to the edge of her seat, watching the screen intently as a pair of announcers pontificated about the game, dozens of screaming fans camera-hogging behind them. “The college game is so much better than the pros.” She didn’t tear her eyes from the TV. “I can’t stand to watch a game with a bunch of millionaires standing around, not playing defense.”
“Sounds like most of the parties I go to.”
“I bet.”
He’d hoped he’d get a laugh out of that one, but this seemed to be serious business for Melanie.
“Do you have any beer?” She granted him another glance, smiling sheepishly. “Just seems like we should be drinking beer if we’re going to watch this. Plus, I need to take the edge off. If we lose, I might die.”
Adam hopped off the couch. “Beer coming up. Stat.” He strode into the kitchen, took two beers from the fridge, popped the tops off, grabbed a bag of potato chips from the pantry and returned to the living room.
“Thank you.” She gazed up at him, their fingers touching as she took the bottle. Her eyes were as wide as they were deep—he could spend a lifetime unraveling everything behind them. She waved him out of the way, craning her neck. “Can you move? I can’t see. It’s time for tip-off.”